ParaSaint
by Anya Link
Summary: I ran away with Tiana after she stopped me in a suicide attempt. I never expected wanting to die would get me into a situation where everything i do is about life. Before, my whole life was Para-Saint.
1. The Little Things

I tried to focus on the little things. They were the only happy ones, the flashes of perfection, that didn't matter. They were things like the clear blue sky ahead of me, through my bedroom window, the familiar grey carpet tickling the soles of my feet, or the smooth movement of my school tie as it slid through my fingers. They were silly things, I suppose, but they are what I remember.

The day was unremarkable. I had no motivation to attend school, and so was at home, my parents having fled to their workplaces at an inhumanly early hour. They would return at six, perhaps bearing a pizza for dinner, expecting to find me here, as though I had attended school like the model daughter I used to be. Today, I wouldn't even have to intercept the call about my habit of skipping class. Today, perfectly planned and long anticipated, had a much better outcome than a few hours of freedom. I vaguely remember smiling at the thought.

The tie well knotted, I slipped it around my neck and reached around the corner. My hands touched first the closet door, off its hinges, and then skimmed along hangers until I felt the comforting texture of a plain, black, zip-up hoody. It slid from the hanger at my slight tug, and I pulled it on, zipping it up and holding the fabric to my face. For a minute, I simply relished the scent of the sweater, which was that of the autumn – damp leaves, pencil shavings, and a new chill in the air. I would die in this hoody as I had lived in it, I told myself then, and stood up.

In the center of the room, I had once hung a basket of flowers during my hippie stage several years previously. The flowers had died long since, and the basket been taken, but the sturdy hook by which it had hung from the ceiling remained, and it was this that I stood under. In front of me was a set of drawers and the window, displaying a view of the wind-battered patio, hedge, and tiny lawn behind the house. On my left was an alcove containing my bed, the closet, and a few shelves. Beanie babies hid, scrunched into the edges of my bed, and a couple of shirts obscured the purple plastic reading lamp. Opposite this mess was an overflowing computer desk, the computer itself perched on top of a low bookcase full of comics and magazines, and the door. The crowning glory of my room, however, lay behind me. It was a mural of four people, three men and a woman, standing at a window. Two of the men and the woman are on the inside, looking blankly out, ignoring the third man. He has a hand pressed to the glass, and looks over his shoulder into my room. The words _Para-Saint: Anywhere Else _snake across the bottom of the painting, announcing the name of the group – my favorite band – and of their most recent album. Almost subconsciously, I turned and paced the three steps to the wall, lightly touching the painted face of the man standing alone on my side of the window. He was Jared Payne, bassist and lyricist for Para-Saint, and I had, at that point, a near obsession with him.

I quickly turned away from the mural, remembering my purpose, and returned to the centre of the room. With a slight, conspiratorial smile, I looped my index finger under my tie at the base of my neck, and flipped it to lie on the outside of my sweater. This done, I stepped onto my desk chair and bent over until I could reach the hook in the center of my room, and attach my tie to it.

I don't remember feeling any pain, or anything at all, really. Almost right away, I was not hanging but floating. Much like the dreams I had experienced when I was younger, I was suspended in a black and white sky. Through a sense of calm and contentment, so foreign to my life, I was aware of only a vague discomfort around my neck. Although my eyes were closed, I could see in the dim distance a pretty girl in black, smiling sweetly and walking towards me. I tried to move to meet her, but found I could not, so I remained, floating. A breeze whispered around my face, wiping away every tear that had ever been on it.

Suddenly, the girl was not smiling. She looked uncertain, then confused, and, in turn, a little upset. I wanted to move forward to comfort her, but found I could not. Flailing, but unable to make my muscles respond, I gave up on my hopeless legs and opened my eyes, just as I felt myself crumple to the ground.


	2. Tiana

I lay for a minute on the familiar grey of my bedroom carpet, getting my bearings. I had been robbed of my carefully planned destiny! I had been in a wonderful, foggy grey world inhabited by beautiful, kind beings, and my pain had been gone, so why was I not there now?

The answer came when I looked up, my suddenly watery green eyes meeting the concerned brown ones of my best friend, Tiana. She stood above me in pyjama pants and a hoodie bearing a sad face print, raspberry hair falling into her face, silent. In one hand was at least half of my school tie; in the other was the pair of sewing sheers she habitually carried in the belly of her rabbit-shaped backpack. Shit.

"Shit," I mumbled, out loud this time, dragging one black sleeve across my eyes. I rolled over and curled up, facing the window instead of Tiana. She sat down cross legged at my head, one red and black checked sock resting inches from my nose. I heard the zipper on her bag open, her fidget to put away the scissors, and then silence. I was in no mood to break it.

"I didn't know it was that bad," she said eventually. I didn't reply.

"I can understand a little. It's almost a death sentence living here. So bloody boring, but you've got to try, right?"

That pissed me off, and I rolled over to sit up, facing her. "No, Tiana," I spat, "you don't understand, because your life is fucking perfect. You're smart, beautiful, funny, popular, and – and whatever! You're so bloody confident. You like your life, so don't pretend." There was hurt in her eyes now, and her pink lips had parted slightly in surprise. I felt my anger being extinguished already, and hated myself for it. She didn't even understand about Para-Saint, so how could she know why I wanted to die? I looked down.

"I'm just sick of everything," I said softly. "I'm sick of being unhappy for no good reason. I'm sick of being told to suck it up, and the looks in peoples' eyes when I wear a lot of black or straighten my bangs in front of my eyes, or – or forget to wear enough bracelets." My right hand moved automatically to cover the exposed cuts and scars on my left wrist, my thumb tracing the outline. "I'm sick of being the only one nobody ever loves. I'm ugly and fat and uninteresting, and I'm going to be stuck here forever."

Even to me, my voice sounded dull, as though I were reciting a script merely to prove I had it memorized. I expected the usual pantomime: she would call me thin, pretty, and say that it was only a matter of time until someone realized how desirable I was, and I would try to believe it for a few hours or days. Perhaps she, too, expected it, for she said nothing of the kind.

"We could get away," she whispered, almost like a question. It was something too wonderful to be voiced aloud. "We could quit school, pack up, and go. Do it really old school," she paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was stronger. "We could leave today."

"We'd be caught. Or," I added, forestalling her objection, "We'd be drawn into some weird circle of hookers and end up in jail, or dead. We're sixteen!"

"We can legally move out, if we have a reason," she reminded me.

"Yeah, a reason, like what?" I sounded bitchy, scornful, but I didn't care. She had stopped me doing what I wanted to do. She couldn't then go making me run away with her. Still, it was a nice dream, and one that I had often contemplated.

"I googled it," she said flatly, thrusting a folded paper towards me. I recognized it as a piece of old fashioned paper, made of trees, and not Patic, the reusable plastic paper that had been mainstream for nearly thirty years. I raised an eyebrow, meeting her eyes with a silent question.

Tiana huffed slightly. "This sort of paper breaks down easily. You can basically soak it in water and it falls apart. Patic's practically bulletproof. Just read it!"

Slightly impressed by her level of preparation, although I'd never admit it, I slid a finger under the top fold of paper and opened it. She had printed out a comprehensive enough list, and I scanned it, calling out items that caught my eye.

"The youth (any person from 14 to 20 years old) has acquired a job which requires him/her to live elsewhere. No, that would take too long. Um…The legal guardians are mentally or physically unstable?"

Tiana snorted. "My mom does pilates with the deputy chief of the Youth Control Force. He knows she's fit and sane." She scrambled around to read the list over my shoulder. "What about this one? They couldn't prove it."

"The youth is in any way abused by the legal guardians," I read aloud. I felt my cheeks color. "Tiana, I couldn't say that! I just couldn't!" She looked a little put out. I had already read to the bottom of the list. I folded it swiftly into an airplane, and used it to bean the painted face of Annie Stills, the female guitarist of Para-Saint. She continued to look placidly out from my wall. She had always been my least favorite band member. It was mainly because of her side project, Celeste Behind The Bus, which was beloved by hipsters everywhere, but, if I was being honest with myself, I was also just extremely jealous of her. Why should she get to be beautiful, talent, happy, and successful? If what I'd heard was true, she wasn't even very kind. I couldn't even get a boyfriend. It wasn't fair! I propped my head on my fists, watching Tiana retrieve her precious list, and iron the wrinkles out with the side of her hand.

"I haven't said I'll go, you know," I reminded her.

"Why not? I know you're as sick of this town as I am." She sounded so grounded, so confident, that I had no choice but to speak my mind in response.

"Because, if you hadn't noticed, it's not just this town I'm sick of! I'm sick of this whole bloody life! I want out! I want to be dead!" I spat. I was surprised at the venom in my voice, but I didn't want to stop. What right did she have to stop me ending my life with some crazy idea to run away? "I wouldn't expect you to understand, of course. You're beautiful, thin, smart, you play guitar, you get asked out all the fucking time, and…and…" having run out of criticisms, I simply glared, picking again at my most recent cutting scars. _My armor is the blood I've lost, I'll be numb at any cost_. I traced the last three words from the chorus of Armor by Para-Saint into my carpet, waiting for a response.

She turned her face away, and I could see her looking down through her curtain of deep pink hair. "You don't need to die. I'd –" she mumbled something indiscernible.

"What?"

"I'd miss you. You're the only one who knows how it feels to not be okay in this perfect, plastic, over-medicated world. You matter." She brushed a rebellious piece of raspberry behind her ear, clearly embarrassed. Silently, I slid forward onto my stomach and took her hand. I looked up, into those hazel eyes that, I suddenly saw, were so terrified of judgment.

"I'll go." A tear that had been hanging at the edge of her Tiana's eye rolled out, and she scowled, scrubbing it away with one long sleeve of her sweater. She hated showing weakness, and I had a sudden, perverse desire to smile at her involuntary display. I loved when others showed imperfection. They all seemed so perfect to me.

"So what's the catch?" she inquired, half joking. It gave me an idea, and I spoke impulsively.

"No catch. I even know what your excuse will be to get past the YCF. Close your eyes."

Tiana looked out at me briefly through her eyelashes before she closed her eyes, only the silver-painted lids and thick mascara still showing. I barely had to steel myself before I sat up and delivered her a quick punch in the face, as hard as I could. When she opened her eyes, sputtering and horrified, I didn't even look up from rubbing my knuckles to say "abusive family. According to your list, it's the number one accepted reason for youth moving out. You have a foolproof excuse."

I couldn't help wondering if she hated me, but only for a second. I was beyond caring, because all I wanted to do was die. As far as I was concerned, anything that went wrong in my life would be a pittance that could not make things worse, or me less happy. That was why I hadn't bothered with an excuse for myself. If the Youth Control Force wanted to drag me back to my parents, I would hang myself again, but properly. As for my decision to run away at all, the most important reason to me then was to keep my parents from finding the mangled remains of my school tie.


	3. Precautions

Author's note: If you have read any of my story, please post a review. I'm not sure if it's worth continuing with, but, as I have some idea of the plot's direction already, I will keep writing if requested to do so. Hope you like it so far! Thanks for reading. -Anya

Tiana rose, steadying herself with one hand against my low bookcase, and I wondered how much of the force of my anger had made its way into that punch. It looked abusive enough, for sure. I did not rise or even shift to watch her as she crossed the hall to the washroom and began cleaning herself up. Ordinarily, I would have been hovering, telling her to not use too much of this lipstick or that powder, but I had other plans. Her rabbit-shaped backpack was lying on the floor where she had left it. I scooted over and slid my hand into the partly unzipped hole at the top, forcing it wider.

A pair of jeans, a skirt, two shirts, a scarf, two bank chips on a keychain, a handheld computer, a cell phone, and several balled pairs of socks and underwear fell out. At the bottom was a collection of pens, tampons, and gum wrappers from previous days out. Wheeling around, I saw that she had already taken out a stick of deodorant and a small toilet kit when she searched for the list of reasons to move out. I opened the later to find a comb, a few bobby pins, and perhaps ten coloured makeup pencils. They were a new, still fairly expensive type which could be used as eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, and even, in a pinch, mascara or nail polish, and I regarded them with envy for a moment before zipping the case closed and throwing it on top of the rubbish at the bottom of her bag. When Tiana came back in, I was busy cutting the necks out of her t-shirts.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, horrified. I looked up, and was gratified to see a large bruise already blooming around her left eye and upper cheek.

"Removing these," I stated dully, holding up a handful of what looked like ordinary barcodes. I had found them sewn into the necklines of her shirts and the hems of her jeans. "They're electronic trackers. Most clothing comes with them, and it's up to the parents to activate them if they want to keep track of the kids. They're slipped into clothes anywhere where the fabric has been doubled over, making a little pocket, such as the hem lines," I explained, gritting my teeth as I wiggled a long, narrow tracking device from the edge of one of her jeans pockets, "I remembered to do it when you said your mom's all tight with the YCF chief."

"The deputy," she corrected absently. "but how do we even know if those things are activated? I doubt my folks would be that paranoid…"

"We don't know," I said shortly. Raising my head to meet her eyes, where she still stood in the doorframe, I added, "I thought you were desperate to escape."

New resolution settled and hardened in her expression, along with a good measure of defiance. "I am."

Although I didn't let on, I was more than a little relieved to hear this. I had known only that I had to escape, and saw only one option: death. Now, perhaps, another one had appeared. I silently reached behind me and pulled out the messenger bag I knew would be hidden under my bed. I had found it in a thrift store in September, and persuaded my parents to buy it on the strength that I needed a book bag for school. Black canvas patterned with a grey tire mark running across, it looked just the thing to run away with, and was so old that it was unlikely to have any tracking devices in the crimson lining. I shook out the pile of anonymous rubbish from the bottom and began rummaging in my closet, throwing underwear, a pair of jeans, a scarf, socks, and a few other items I deemed necessary over my shoulder. Tiana had repacked her own bag and was pawing gingerly at her black eye.

"We should have a weapon, in case we're stopped," she said suddenly.

"What have you got?"

She shook her head slightly, frowning. "My parents are against that stuff. They actually helped organize the campaign to have kitchen knives outlawed and replaced by electronic, self-contained dicing units." She rolled her eyes, and made air quotes with her fingers, "'the presence of violent tools suggests to impressionable youth that violence is acceptable.' What a joke."

"I'll look," I offered, though not very hopefully. Government regulations only allowed very short, dull knives to be owned in homes, favoring slicing machines where a hidden, non-removable blade diced food into perfect, bite sized pieces with no risk of injury. My parents were pretty law-abiding, although my dad had grumbled when he had to throw away the antique switchblade he had kept as a curiosity in a small glass case. I left Tiana folding a pair of my knee socks and traipsed down the stairs to the kitchen.

I looked over the familiar room only briefly, and seemed to have my worst fears confirmed. On the immaculate marble countertops, three gleaming processors sat waiting to mix drinks, chop food, and provide such information as nutrition facts, cooking instructions, and a best before date on any meal. There was no stove, only a large oven with so many buttons on it that always felt I might have been trying to fly a plane rather than prepare my lunch. Sighing resignedly, I walked behind the kitchen table and began to open drawers at random, looking for something dangerous.

My fingers and eyes brushed leisurely past crockery and tools made of unbreakable plastics and non-rusting metals, to soft bags of flour, oats, dried peas, raisins, or tiny vials of spices and sauces, stoppered with corks or screw tops, or held together with twist ties. I opened the fridge, scanned the shelves, and closed it. At the freezer, I stopped to remove a frozen ice cream cone, pull the wrapper away from it, and continue my way around the kitchen with it in hand, taking occasional licks. I was supposed to be dead. I_ wanted_ to be dead! Alone again, it was more difficult to banish the thought. I would find a safety pin later, I told myself, and add to the latticework of cuts under the left cuff of my sweater. It was with this thought in mind that I noticed the strange thing about the cutlery drawer.

As with most cutlery drawers, this one had an organizer in it, to keep the different sizes of spoons from mixing or whatever. This organizer, however, was a perfect square. The cutlery fit, but there must, judging by the dimensions of the other drawers, there must be some space behind. Cautiously, I pulled the drawer out farther. The white plastic of the organizer, stained from long use, and warped, ended, and a new piece of plastic began. Had the second piece not looked so much more pristine, it would have been indistinguishable, and was clearly cut to fit perfectly. I drew in a breath and pulled the drawer all the way out, lifting it onto the kitchen counter. There was no mistake: a sheet of white plastic sat snugly over the back half of the drawer. I used a fork to pry it open.

There, in the space, was my father's old switchblade. I almost laughed. Of course! He had grumbled about having to part with his favorite antique, but it and the case that housed it had disappeared when they were decreed unsafe influences by the home inspector. I let my breath out and, almost reverently, picked the knife up. It had a black leather handle, and lines of polished chrome along the top and bottom. The button, too, was chrome. I pushed the lock down with my thumb, clicked it, and a four inch blade sprung out, glinting. I closed my fist over the knife, pushing the blade back out of sight, replaced the plastic sheet and the drawer itself, and hurried upstairs to show Tiana. The traditionally meek, obedient girl would have her wish: a weapon.


	4. The Boy

Author's note: If you like my story, abhor it, or anything in between, please review! I haven't gotten a single review yet, so I'm not at all sure whether to keep writing or not. Whatever your opinion is, let it be known! Oh, and by the way, happy New Year. –Anya

Fifteen minutes later, the two of us were shivering at an outdoor sky train station, lost in our individual thoughts. After our initial thrill at discovering the knife, in had been slid in Tiana's bag for safekeeping, and we had left in a rush, suddenly skittish and fearful of discovery. I had instinctively changed into a more practical outfit, and instructed Tiana to do likewise. She was wearing a pair of my dark purple skinny jeans – pajamas hardly seemed the thing to run away in – and covered her raspberry locks with a navy toque, but kept on her own battered sneakers and sad face hoody. Snug in my own black zip up and combat boots, I understood her attachment to them. We each toted the bags we would learn to live out of on one shoulder. I looked up from watching rain drops chase down an advertisement on the wall (Dr. Capricorn's new metabolism-boosting licorice chews, 30% off when you present your updated Local Resident token!) to see the train whiz into the station. Still unspeaking, we marched together to the seats we always took – left side, third from the front. Knowing Tiana would not be first to break the thickening silence, I spoke.

"My bangs are in ringlets, aren't they?" She smiled, looking a little relieved.

"Not ringlets, but they've gone a bit fuzzy. Want my hat?"

"It's alright." I pulled my hood up and assured her that her hair was, as always, in perfect condition. She smiled again and fixed her brown eyes on a point in the rain-streaked distance.

I had not yet asked Tiana why she wanted so desperately to leave behind a stable, privileged, 4.0, shopping-trips-on-Saturdays life for the uncertainty ahead of us. She had never been radical about anything, preferring to drift along with the most agreeable course available, upsetting no one, and had, to my knowledge, no significant problems. Her only common complaint was that people stared at her beauty everywhere she went. Here was not the place to ask, and, if I was being completely honest with myself, I had been too wrapped up in my own depression previously to consider her own reasons for needing to escape. It was with this embarrassing thought in mind that I turned my head to see the boy watching my best friend from behind the cover of his book.

His hair, a mess of black and white stripes, and his black dress pants with white pinstripes and careful iron creases in the front marked him as a member of the skuk subculture. It wasn't one I knew much about, but I was fairly sure it had started with a punk band of my parents' generation, The Skunks, who had sported pin striped suits and black and white trihawks. The look had spread to their fan base, mutated, and become a wider subculture. Despite its best efforts, counterculture movements seemed to be one of the only aspects of teenage life the Youth Control Force had been unable to fully repress. The only skuk band I could think of was Neon Revelation, and, being unable to recall any of their songs, I returned to studying the boy.

The book he was reading had a dark blue dust jacket over it, and a name on the front and spine which I couldn't quite read at the distance. His battered black leather jacket was open enough for me to see a thin chain around his neck, disappearing below his shirt collar. I raised my eyes to his angular face, where his own eyes, dark and rimmed with eyeliner, shifted from Tiana to look back at me. I felt myself flush and turned around. Tiana glanced at me, a slight smirk playing across her face. If there was a friendship equivalent to twin telepathy, we so totally had it.

"You look like you just saw Jared Payne!" she whispered, naming the front man of Para-Saint. We both giggled, drawing a scornful look from the aging hipster sitting opposite us.

"Oh totally," I replied sarcastically, "Because he rides the sky train in suburbia." I lowered my voice, continuing, "Nearly as good. There's a super attractive skuk guy checking you out." I shifted my eyes to look behind us, met hers again, and grinned. On some pretense, she turned around. When she turned back, she, too, had turned slightly red.

"He totally caught me looking!" she breathed.

"Hey, that means he was looking back."

Her pink lips spread into an automatic smile, but it quickly died and fell from her face. "That means someone knows where we are. We'll be caught and dragged back before we even get downtown." We had made the hasty decision, while walking to the sky train station earlier, to get off downtown, withdraw as much money as we could (Tiana had stolen her mother's bank chip, and each of us had one of our own), and find somewhere cheap to stay while we made more concrete plans. It wasn't much of a schedule, but I agreed that we couldn't let a boy, even a gorgeous, alternative boy, jeopardize it. I sighed. Tiana was chewing on her bottom lip in thought.

"Let's get off at the next stop," she said finally. "We can pretend we're going to that massive mall, and get back on the train to head downtown later."

I nodded, and flashed what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and not a reflection of my actual feelings. I had set off on Tiana's demand, and to get away, be it from my life or my suicide. It suddenly struck me that, most likely, we didn't stand a chance and would end up mugged and beaten before crawling back home, tails between our runaway legs. I needed desperately to speak to Tiana in private, and voice the thousands of fears and questions bubbling up inside me, but she was still sitting placidly next to me on the extremely public train. I resolved to pull her aside somewhere – anywhere.


	5. Purple Lips May Sink Ships

Author's Note: Oh my flying spaghetti monster, I actually got a review! Keep them coming, please, as I'd really like to improve my writing. Also, if you have any suggestions for the story, let me know, as I might be able to fit some into the plot I have planned. Like always, I want to hear about whatever you love and hate, or even if you're just reading this out of boredom and will forget it in seconds. Thanks! -Anya

It was the twenty second of November, and we were pulled along by a crowd of Christmas shoppers from the train, through the station, and across the pedestrian overpass before being dropped into a courtyard at the heart of the enormous mall. A tree had already been erected there, and a fuzzy version of Hellomynameis' indie-rock cover of Winter Wonderland played through tiny speakers hidden in the multi-colored baubles which hung from every limb. I rolled my eyes as Tiana began to hum along.

A quick glance around showed me that there were no unoccupied benches, so I sat down cross legged, my back against one of the giant, Styrofoam blobs meant to resemble a gift box, and pulled my friend down next to me. In response to the inquisitive look she shot me from under her silver eyelids (one swollen almost shut), I rummaged through my bag, found my bank chip in the very bottom, and held it in front of her to see.

"You have two, right? Is there a limit on how much you can withdraw?"

"On my bank chip?" she looked momentarily puzzled, and then said "Oh, no, there isn't. I only have about a thousand dollars, though."

"How much is on your mom's card?" I asked impatiently, forcing myself to keep my voice down. She thought a minute.

"Probably lots," she said slowly, "because my dad always puts a lot in her account so she can pay the cleaning women and go shopping and all that." A flush crept under her porcelain skin. For as long as I'd known her, Tiana had been self-conscious about having money. She continued quickly, "Should we withdraw it all?"

Relieved I hadn't been the one to bring that up, I nodded and said yes in what I hoped was a decisive, confident manner. Tiana never usually bought my lies, some sixth sense telling her when I was insecure and out of my depth, but if she doubted me then, she said nothing to indicate it.

"There's a teller machine next to the escalators on every floor," I said, and she nodded. We stood up, the all-too-familiar silence descending like a storm cloud over our heads, and let ourselves be engulfed again by the harried crowd.

We were almost at the ATM when I slowed to a stop, causing severally angry adults to swerve around me with a scowl. Tiana backtracked a few steps to where I was, and we moved together to stand against the wall.

"What's up?"

I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood before answering. How could I explain?

"I don't want to be me anymore, Tiana. I'm so fucking sick of seeing myself in the mirror, hearing myself speak, knowing what others think and say about me… I just…" I trailed off. Who did I want to be? Ordinarily, I would have said in a second that I wanted to be Tiana, but in light of her desperate need to run from her life, I wasn't so sure. One thing I was sure of was that I needed to change, and I would. Without any further explanation, I grabbed the cuff of Tiana's jacket and steered her into the store behind us. I knew how I could do this on a budget.

It was only ten minutes before I was standing in the handicapped stall of the mall washroom, the door shut and Tiana at my side. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the sound of her sewing shears. It had been easy to steal what I needed; body jewelry was tiny, and the jacket fit snuggly over top of my zip up hoodie. In the crush of people taking advantage of a sale in the store, walking out even with the hat in hand hadn't seemed too challenging. One thing I had always adored about this mall was the lack of security sensors on the doors, and it was here that Tiana and I had taught each other to shoplift on weekends when we were too young to be afraid of consequences. Neither of us had ever been caught.

The difficult part had been in convincing Tiana to participate in her part of my plan, but I knew her well enough to see that the fight had left her when I agreed to run away.

"Done," she said softly. I opened my eyes a crack, but her expression betrayed nothing.

"How does it look?"

Apparently mute, she unlocked the stall door and held it open for me. I watched my feet march their way to the sinks, meet, and stop before I dared raise my eyes to my reflection. The breath caught in my throat.

The green eyes that looked back at me from the mirror were mine, still ringed in black and full of shock, but the face which housed them was utterly alien. Tiana had painted my lips with eggplant purple makeup, and reluctantly pierced the bottom one at the center. A silver ring was on display there, matching the three silver studs in each ear. My hair, previously a jet black mess that fell almost to my elbows and obscured my face, had been cropped into shaggy layers, the longest of which were even with my chin. I could no longer hide behind my bangs, as they, too, had been chopped to roughly eyebrow length. I pulled the brim of my new bowler hat lower, compensating. Even the black leather jacket, which I had been unsure of, seemed perfectly at home on the frame of this marvelous new me. The elderly woman sharing my row of sinks shuffled off, and I pulled Tiana into a tight hug, a smile on my face for the first time in days.

"You like it?" she asked anxiously, her voice muffled against my shoulder. I was speechless, so I said the only words that fit.

"It's perfect."

I offered to transform Tiana, returning the favor, but she declined with a nervous giggle. She was still unsettled as we finally stood in front of the teller machines a few moments later.

"What if we need some more later?" her chip had been swallowed into the machine, but her finger still hovered over the button that would confirm her transaction, emptying the contents of the account into her hands. I suppressed a sigh with difficulty.

"That's completely irrelevant. Once they found out that we're gone, and once your mother realizes you've taken her chip, too, we won't be able to access the accounts. I'm pretty sure the YCF will contact the bank or something. They're run by the same organization, after all."

Tiana pursed her lips in distaste, but lowered her finger onto the touch screen. I grabbed the money that was spit out and stuffed it into my bag before she could change her mind. She seemed decided, though, and had one hand holding her dark pink hair back from her face while the other rummaged in her rabbit-shaped bag. Eventually, she produced the keychain with her mother's bank chip on it and clicked it into the small hole in the machine. The card disappeared, sucked away, and a variety of options sprung onto the screen. Before she could select one, however, a new window ballooned to the front. Tiana read it to me in a whisper.

"Mrs. Crystal Deborah Giblet is informed that her daughter, Miss Tiana Lynne Giblet, age sixteen, has emptied the contents of her account. This message has been automatically delivered at the request of Mrs. Crystal Deborah Giblet. Please contact the government banking agency with any concerns. We thank you for using your official government bank."

"As if there was a choice," I muttered. Tiana looked panic-stricken.

"What if they email her that, too?" she asked, still in an urgent stage whisper "she'll find out I'm gone! She might even be able to find out what ATM I withdrew from!" Tiana paused, "She'll make us go back. I know she will." She slumped against the edge of the machine, a curtain of hair obscuring her face, but I saw her wipe her hand quickly across her cheek, banishing the tear that would have been a flaw to her ever composed exterior. Quickly, I completed the transactions that emptied her mother's account and my own, and closed the flap of my bag on top of a mess of bills before going to my best friend's side.

"Come on. We're only ten minutes from the train."

Both terrified and trying not to show it, we returned to the sky train station and took off, for the second time that day, towards the city center and an invisible future.


	6. Downtown

Author's note: Despite its length, you may find this chapter underwhelming. I had planned to do other things with it, but Tiana disagreed, and who am I to tell her how to act? Besides, after my laptop rebelled and deleted my writing not once but twice, this chapter was doomed from the start. If you're disappointed, know at least that the information included here is important to the events soon to take place in November of 2041 (yes, Marek, that means that at least some of your questions are soon to be answered). Enjoy, and review! -Anya

The elevator door dinged open, and I pulled my bag more firmly onto my shoulder before setting off down the overly bright hotel hall, checking once over my shoulder to see that both Tiana and her possessions had made it to the fourth floor. Tiana had fidgeted and spoken softly since reaching our temporary lodgings, and the tight lips and sideways glances at her black eye we received from the receptionist had only served to make her more nervous. I was unsurprised to see her make a bee-line to the bed as soon as I opened the door, and sit on its edge, hunched forward with her pale chin resting on her palms. I gathered up her discarded bag, set it next to my own against the small chest of drawers, and stood back to survey the silent room.

It was a no-frills hotel room, but still far out of our budget for a permanent residence. We had essentially gotten off the train in what I decided would be the cheapest area downtown, and wandered around with no strategic direction before deciding on a room here. This, I assured Tiana, was where we would make plans to bring ourselves into our new lives. This was the first step to freedom.

It didn't look like freedom. The carpet was regulation beige, and the walls something that might have once been cream but now looked closer to dirty butter; the matching curtains and bedspread were an off-white almost as unoriginal as the framed pictures of fruit adorning the walls. Across the room was a dark rectangle I assumed led to the en-suite bathroom, and the room's most tantalizing feature: a wide, clear window through which I could see thousands of lights representing cars on their way home, restaurants beginning to serve dinner, offices winding down for the day, rooms being illuminated to welcome friends, and other tiny flickers of the lives of happy people. The thought brought about an unexpected surge of nostalgia for the days when I, too, had lived such a mundane life, and I drew the curtains, blotting out the evening sky with another off-white wall. In my sudden melancholy, I could not be bothered to move the few steps to a waiting armchair. I sank down with my back to the closed drapes, and hung my head.

I looked up seconds later at the sudden light of the bedside lamp to see Tiana watching me from a couple of meters away. She regarded me seriously for a moment before venturing a smile. When I did not respond, she spoke.

"This place should be great! Seriously, I know it's not, like, lavish, but it could be an awesome base. And we're right downtown!"

I was as irritated by her false cheer as by the fact that she had ignored the price of the room completely. How very like her, I thought, to assume that her lifestyle could continue in its traditionally comfortable manner. How like her to forget my feelings, focusing on only her own outrageous standard. She, who had been given everything and more. She received everyone's love and appreciation without trying for it, while I was always a second though. At best, I was "Tiana's friend".

"Tiana," I suddenly asked, an undercurrent of venom in my tone, "why did you run away?" She seemed taken aback momentarily by this change of topic, but answered instantly.

"I needed to escape," she stated simply. It was as confident and as irrefutable as a mathematical solution, and I felt myself scowl.

"No, seriously, you can tell me. It's not like I'm going to tell. You have the ultimate blackmail against me, if you hadn't noticed," I said, referring to the way she had discovered me that morning. She paused this time, gnawing daintily at her lower lip.

"Answer me honestly, okay? I really need to know this," she looked me directly in the eye, and asked with a perfect deadpan, "Do I look fat?"

I couldn't help it; I burst into a giggle. "Oh totally Tiana," I snorted, drawing out the vowel sounds sarcastically, "You're so obese. I'm surprised you could fit through the door, actually." She frowned, and mumbled, "Shut up," but I continued, undeterred, "the elevator definitely shuddered at your intense weight. You have to get all you clothes tailored out of old duvet covers, right?" suddenly, I realized that I was the only one laughing.

"You can't be serious, Tiana," I said, looking deep into her brown eyes as though that would convince her, "you just said that to cheer me up, didn't you? You must know you aren't fat." She turned away, not meeting my gaze. I looked over her perfect, slender form in astonishment, still half convinced she was joking. My worst fears were confirmed when I saw her raise a shaking hand to dab away the tears which threatened to ruin her perfect mask of makeup. Silently, I pushed myself up from the floor and wrapped my arms around her.

"S-sorry," she said, smiling through her sadness. I rested my chin on her shoulder, close enough to breathe in the scent of her shampoo.

"Don't be silly. Of course you aren't fat. How many inches is your waist?" I asked, deliberately neutralizing my voice in an attempt to mask my concern.

"Twenty seven," she whispered, "but I used to be thinner. Anyways, I can see myself gaining weight. I can look in the mirror and be a little fatter each time." Her voice dropped an octave, and she murmured, "It's horrible." I looked down at my arms wrapped around her middle, and saw a body that was the envy of everyone she met. Bewildered as I was, I tried to keep a smile in my voice.

"Well, I'm thirty two inches, so don't worry about it. You're gorgeous, alright?" she turned and looked down two inches into my eyes, something unreadable in her tearstained expression.

"Thanks," she said simply, and, before I had a second to think, lowered her face to give me a peck on the lips.

I felt myself smile involuntarily, and busied myself with sorting the money still in a mess at the top of my bag. Tiana and I had been friends for so long that hugs and an occasional kiss on the cheek were to be expected, but I was always afraid of creating awkwardness. I felt my friend's eyes on me, and spoke to break the silence before it became stretched too thin.

"Now that we've clarified you still look like a model, let's go for dinner. What's the time?" Tiana leaned over to check the clock radio on the bedside table.

"Five thirty. What do you feel like having?"

"Probably just a sandwich or something, but I know I want to go to some little diner rather than a chain restaurant or whatever," I answered decisively. Tiana nodded, absently plaiting her hair, and declared she wanted the biggest veggie burger we could find. In moments, we were back on the street.

I shouldered my bag and steered our paths east, into a scummier area. Most of my load and all of Tiana's had been left in our hotel room for safekeeping, so the only things weighing me down were three ten dollar bills (Tiana had insisted I bring extra money, just in case) and the ordinary contents of my purse which, though deemed vitally necessary when I packed them, never seemed to come in handy after all. The handheld computer stowed in Tiana's jacket pocket dinged periodically, warning of a new email or a low battery, and, every time it did, she started.

I, on the other hand, was surprisingly relaxed about our situation. During our many years of friendship, we had spent countless days this way, riding the skytrain to its penultimate stop and alighting into a world wholly different from the monotony of Pusney, the suburb were our lives were centered. On weekends when my parents had been away on business, I would return alone in the evenings, when Tiana's sheltering family forbade her from leaving the neighborhood, and pretend I belonged. For some reason, I had kept these solitary trips secret even from her, and gave no explanation for the easy way I navigated the shadowed, notoriously dangerous streets.

It wasn't as if Tiana was paying me any attention, I reminded myself sharply. It was true. She had cast aside with ease everything told to her about the disreputable characters and their activities in this end of the core, and was plainly enraptured with the sights around her. Neon signs, decrepit in appearance by the light of day, flickered and buzzed everywhere, hanging in rows from buildings; foreign scents and streams of music bled through the doors and covered windows of restaurants, a tantalizing hint of the life within; and, most impressively, the first of the Nocturnal Populace had begun to creep into the pools of color cast by the florescent signs.

These were the last reminders of a brief government initiative to reverse the sleeping patterns of half the population. The Nocturnal Populace (or N-Pop, as they had come to be known) program had seemed a good idea at first, designed to decrease crowding and allow businesses to stay open twenty-four hours a day, but had soon gone awry. Despite tax initiatives offered, the N-Pop did not attract people from all walks of life. Rather, volunteers were crooks, partiers, and all manner of social misfits who preferred to carry out their seedy transactions under cover of night. As soon as their sleep-cycles were adequately reversed (a government provided service), these colorful N-Pop initiates began to swarm the well-off few who had also join the program, relieving them of their possessions, and, in a few cases, quickly hushed up, their very lives. The Nocturnal Populace idea was swiftly dropped, but a stubborn few held fast to their unnatural hours. Rather than following the clock, the modern N-Pop ventured out at nightfall, which explained their presence before six o'clock in late November. Fascinated, I watched a small, pallid young woman fixing band posters to the window of a thrift store, sipping at her "morning" coffee. Suddenly, she melted into an alleyway, and I spun around to look for the source of her discomfort.

I recognized the Youth Control Force worker immediately by his severe black uniform, and identified him as an officer by the shape of the burgundy cap pulled low over his eyes and matching braided cord ornamenting the cuffs of his long, woolen overcoat. A recent recruit, hooded and silent, was shadowing him. I watched the officer stop three young men in their tracks, and place his gun against the heart of the middle one. Seemingly un-phased, they exchanged a few words before the gun was jerked upwards, freeing the youth from his prison, and the three walked on. Tiana had seen nothing, and I didn't mention it to her.


End file.
